


as you mean to go on

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: First Kiss, Getting Together, Insecure Tony Stark, M/M, New Year's Resolutions, Post-Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-04-21 17:21:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22099156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He huffed a tiny laugh at the thought of the number of people who'd be getting up early this morning, making their way into town with New Year's resolutions shining beautifully out of their faces. Tony got it: he'd played that game when he was younger. He'd never won. Hope was a hell of a drug, though.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 146
Collections: Anonymous





	as you mean to go on

**Author's Note:**

> Some oblique mentions of PTSD and anxiety in here; go forth prepared!

Tony squinted at the mess of code on the projection in front of him. "What was I thinking?" he muttered, tugging at his hair. That line was just—no, actually, that whole _loop_ was just— "Ugh."

"Might I suggest leaving it for daylight hours, sir?" JARVIS offered, with an edge of long-suffering resignation that always reminded Tony of nothing so much as human Jarvis. A reluctant smile pulled at his lips. He hadn’t programmed that in; JARVIS had learned it all on his own.

"You might," he said. "But you know I'm not gonna. Science waits for no one, J."

And his nightmares waited for no one, either. He'd done his best to wear himself out at the party last night, but—icy shivers jagged down his back, and he dragged his eyes back to the code. Nope. Not thinking about it. Not at all thinking about the wormhole and the cruel cold of the vacuum and the battalion—

"Fuck!" He ground his palms into his eyes. His breath was beating at his throat. "Shit. J, bring something else up for me, will you? The polymane, maybe."

JARVIS, kindly, said nothing, only switched the projection. Tony swallowed and tried to focus, but the light was swimming in front of his eyes. Goddammit.

He pushed to his feet and slipped over to the kitchen, his hands already grabbing for the Chemex. He needed to do _something_ with them, something to bring his brain back to the here and now, and coffee, coffee was easy. Coffee he could do in his sleep. He forced himself to pay attention to the exact smell and heft of the grounds as he measured them out, the rasp of the paper filter between his fingertips. JARVIS had started the electric kettle without being asked—bless him—and it was done only a moment after Tony finished setting up. He poured a little bit of the water slowly to let the coffee bloom, then added the rest.

As he went through the motions, his breathing eased. The jittery, tight feeling drew back from under his skin, millimeter by millimeter. It was a crawl, but he came back from the edge, just enough.

The victory felt hollow and pathetic in empty communal kitchen. Whatever: Pepper and Rhodey were always telling him every little bit counted. He pushed out a sigh, and hopped up onto a stool at the bar to wait for the brew, casting around for something else to pay attention to.

The sky was still cool black outside the common room windows, he noted, but there was a hint of deep blue at the horizon. The early people were just starting to get up; he could see streaks of taxi and bike light on the street, and hunched figures in coats hurrying to the subway entrances. He huffed a tiny laugh at the thought of the number of people who'd be getting up early this morning, making their way into town with New Year's resolutions shining beautifully out of their faces. Tony got it: he'd played that game when he was younger. He'd never won. Hope was a hell of a drug, though.

A flare of sadness bit at his chest; he wrinkled his nose, and yanked his mind away, back to the coffee isntead.

A look at the kitchen clock told him it was ready. He slid off the stool, and almost fell over when the elevator dinged and the doors popped open.

"Tony?" Steve said.

His brow was furrowed in confusion. He was wearing sweatpants and a white t-shirt, clearly on his way to start _jogging_ at 4:30am, god. He looked like he'd stepped out of a health magazine, practically glowing in the soft light of the kitchen as the elevator doors closed behind him.

"Hi," Tony mumbled. His stomach did its trademark flutter and dip at the sight of him. "Putting the rest of us to shame with your exercise habits already, huh, Vitruvian Man?"

Steve's frown softened a little, but the corner of his mouth stayed down-turned, and he stepped closer. "What are you doing up?” he asked. “You're usually not making your coffee till seven, at least."

Fuck, Tony was _not_ equipped to deal with the way Steve's Brooklyn accent curled tenderly around the words, his _cawfee_ and his soft, barely-there R's. Steve had told them once about the dialect training he'd been hustled through after Project Rebirth; most of the time, he was pretty Standard American because of it, but Tony'd noticed that when he was tired, or—or comfortable, he'd slip into his native cadence.

_Not the time! _he chided himself, realizing he hadn't answered yet. Getting lost in the sound of Steve's voice, what was he, twelve? Prompted by Steve’s question, he looked back at the coffee, and then hurried around the counter as he remembered he'd been in the middle of going to stop the brew. Shit, it was probably over-brewed now; he really was a disaster and a half today, wasn’t he?

"Eh, start as you mean to go on," he quipped back, distracted. "And I mean to break a lot of scientific rules and drink a lot of coffee this year. Want a cup?"

He cut a glance back at Steve, hoping he'd covered his staring well enough. But Steve was gazing back at him, a tiny line in his forehead. His eyes glimmered with something that Tony couldn't quite name.

"Start as you mean to go on, huh?" he murmured, and stepped in staggeringly close to Tony.

Tony swallowed and blinked dumbly up at him. His skin was tingling with warmth at his proximity, as if he had a little sensor that wailed,_ Steve! Steve! _somewhere in his nervous system. "Yeah," he stammered. "You know. New year and all?"

Visibly, Steve took a deep breath. His forehead smoothed, and his face took on an expression Tony was used to seeing in battle: pure, grit determination. He leaned even closer to Tony, sending those proximity alarms screaming, and Tony's breath caught in his chest under a flurry of panic as Steve—slowly raised his arm? What?

His hand came towards Tony's face, even more slowly. No: gently, deliberately. His eyes were fixed on Tony's, deep and brimming with that inexplicable feeling, and Tony couldn't look away from the weight of his gaze. Steve's fingers alighted on his cheek, and the heat of Steve's skin was such a shock that even thought Tony had seen it coming a mile away, he inhaled sharply. Steve's thumb was a point of sunlight on the thin skin under his eye.

"What are you doing?" Tony breathed out.

There was a crack in his words, and it made him feel—_shy,_ god. Like ducking his head away from Steve's hand to hide. It was just the way Steve was _looking_ at him. Why was Steve looking at him like that? What the hell? This was all dangerous, way too dangerous. The warning sensors had melted together and turned into an ache, a want so strong he could taste it like thirst on his tongue, for Steve to stay close. Close enough that Tony could crawl into his arms and stay, but _fuck,_ that was not a safe thought to be having—

"I'm hoping to kiss you," Steve said, breaking Tony's thoughts.

His lips parted as his jaw dropped. "What? _Why?_" he gasped. "Me?"

Steve's mouth curved, ever-so-slightly. "You," he agreed. Nervous affection—that was what it was in his eyes, Tony realized suddenly. "Definitely you. Couldn’t scrape up the courage before, but—start as you mean to go on, and all that?"

There was uncertainty threaded in there, which was frankly baffling. Tony's heart was racing so fast it could've won the Triple Crown, and _Steve_ was nervous?

"You mean to go on kissing me?" he managed to ask. The thought was so strange he almost couldn't fit his mouth around the words. Sure, he'd been nursing feelings for Steve for months, now, but the thought that Steve had feelings for him, too? Get out of town.

"If you'll let me," Steve said. Ruining all Tony's convictions, upending everything he knew about the world. His lip was tucked just slightly between his teeth, and his chest rose and fell in a quick breath. "Whaddya think?"

His thumb stroked a line of light over Tony's cheek.

Hope was a hell of a drug, Tony thought, dazed. He'd played the game and lost so many times before, but—if Steve was willing to take a chance on an insomniac, anxiety-riddled mess like him, then fuck, Tony wasn't about to say no. He'd grab this with both hands, and if he ended up with his heart broken, well, that was only to be expected. But the glow of that _maybe_, the hint of possibility in Steve's gorgeous blue eyes...

He let his own hand come up to curl into Steve's t-shirt at his waist, and tugged, till Steve's breath was fanning over lips that suddenly felt a thousand times more sensitive than they had a moment ago. "All right. Let's do it," he whispered, and leaned forward.


End file.
